Caged
by Ice Queen1
Summary: Post Season 5 Finale. No real spoilers, but you're probably going to get a pretty good idea if you read it. Neal's been missing for four months when he shows up on Peter's doorstep, broken and bruised with a set of cuffs dangling from one hand.
1. Chapter 1

Season 5 finale spoilers ahead, but really sort of vague. I suppose this could be anywhere in their time line, but I wrote it as a follow up to that awesome finale. One of the best ones, in my opinion, especially after a season I was kind of iffy on. But this is left purposely vague as far as circumstances as to who took Neal, where he's been, and what they wanted him for. Let me know what you think!

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><p>"You say that you're trapped.<p>

In a cage.

A prisoner.

The cycle never ends.

Then be free. It's time.

You know how and where to find the love that you long for."

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><p>Neal was paler and thinner than Peter remembered. While he'd always been slim, he'd also been healthy. Now he looked like a scarecrow – hollowed cheeks made his face look painfully narrow, his back curved like he was in the middle of a perpetual flinch, his once vivid blue eyes sunken and dimmed. One pale skin was now a sickly shade of yellow, like worn parchment and looked stretched and painfully tight across bone and long gone muscle.<p>

"Neal…what happened to you?"

Neal's eye twitched, and not mildly – one so violent it shut his eye completely. He rubbed absently at it, and Peter saw his hands, and felt his stomach clench uncomfortably. Neal's once pristine hands were reddened and calloused with scars. Several nails were missing, some only partially grown back. In checkered patterns across the back of his hand were short, thin red lines, some scabbed and some scarred. The joint on his thumb was freshly abraded, looking painful and swollen even in the fading light. Around his wrists were thick, ropey looking scars. Ones that prisoners sustained when bound too tightly for extended periods of time.

_This is what happens when a wild thing wants to be free._

Neal took a step away from Peter, towards the open door and the night.

"No, Neal, don't run," Peter said, fighting the urge to chase the younger man. It took all of his willpower not to lunge at him to keep him from leaving. "Just…tell me what happened."

Neal didn't answer. He rubbed a scarred hand across his face, before letting it stay over his mouth. His breathing sped up, and his eyes were suspiciously bright.

"Okay, Neal. That's fine. You don't have to talk. You don't have to say a word. Just step away from the door, okay? It's getting cold, and you're letting all the warm air out. Want to come in and warm up before you go?" Peter took a step away from his former partner so the man could see the emptiness of the house behind him. "No one else is here. Not even El. You don't have to say a word, Neal. Just come inside and warm up."

Slowly, so painfully slowly, Neal took a step away from the door.

Peter took another step back, keeping the four feet of space between them so Neal wouldn't get the idea he was trying to catch him.

"Come on, kid. You look rough. How about you sit down?" Peter suggested, stepping away from the couch and gesturing for Neal to sit. "You want something to eat? I don't have anything fancy, since El has been in DC for the week. I might have some leftovers though."

Neal's hand finally left his mouth, and Peter could tell the food caught his attention. No wonder. God knew the last time that the kid ate. He absently licked chapped lips, looking wistful in a way no human ever should over the offer of food.

"Just sit there, and I'll bring you back something, okay? You can see me just fine from the couch."

Neal absently sat, perched on the edge of the sofa as if he was unconvinced he should or could relax, eyes unblinking and focused on the kitchen.

Peter willed himself to turn around, trying to force himself to pretend like everything was okay, and like Neal wasn't going to vanish again for four months if he took his eyes off of him. He found bread and an apple, which while not substantial, Neal didn't look like he could take greasy takeout or leftover pizza. Bland was better at this moment.

He sliced up the apple into pieces, ditching the core in the trash and toasting the bread before cautiously making his way back to the living room.

Neal remained frozen on the couch, eyes watching the small plate of food as if it was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Peter carefully set it down on the coffee table before backing up, but this time only to the opposing recliner.

Neal eyed him warily, before reaching out his other hand for the apple slices. As he did so, his sleeve pulled up past his wrist, and Peter couldn't help the growl of rage.

Around his wrist was a set of hand cuffs. Or at least, one half of them. The other cuff had been torn or cut and wrenched violently off, the chain broken and bent that normally connected them. Neal should have been able to slip them, or pick them as he had numerous times before, but this time it wasn't possible. The metal had been closed so tightly over his wrist and left long enough that it had literally worn away at his flesh – it was gouging into his skin so badly that Peter could see muscle and tissue and where it had started to rot.

It hadn't been picked because there was no key hole to release it. Neal would need surgery to remove it from his skin.

Too late, Neal realized what he revealed. He yanked his hand back, pulling his sleeve down again and bolting for the door.

"Neal, NO!" Peter said, lunging at the fleeing man and grabbing onto his right arm hard enough to bruise and not caring. He would bruise now and apologize later if it meant he didn't lose Neal again. "Don't run, Neal, I'm not trying to hurt you!"

Neal turned on him then, balled fist coming up to Peter's face. It hurt, but not as much as getting punched by a full grown man should have, and Peter was grateful. He didn't release Neal's arm, but caught Neal's wildly swinging hand with his, mindful of the damaged limb.

"Let go!" Neal yelled, speaking for the first time. "Let go of me!" He shoved Peter as best he could with only his upper body weight, but Peter held fast.

"Neal, just calm down! I don't know what happened, but we can fix it," Peter soothed, easily keeping pace with the con.

It was apparently the wrong thing to say, because suddenly Peter was _violently_ shoved backwards, and instead of trying to get away, Neal was now _attacking_. He wrenched one arm free at the same time as he slammed Peter against the wall.

"_You didn't look!_" Neal shouted. "_You never fucking looked!_"

Peter wasn't trying to defend himself, he was just trying to recapture Neal's wildly swing hand without grabbing the broken cuff, but Neal didn't care.

"You chased me across the world even when it was you who told me to run! You chased me for _years_ and you _always_ came looking for me! Why couldn't you _find_ me when I needed you!" Neal yelled. "You always found me! You _always_ found _me!_ _Why couldn't you find me this time_? Why didn't you _look_!"

Peter finally grabbed Neal's elbow, spinning him so Neal's back was to him, his arms folded across his own chest, and his hands safely away from Neal's wrists. Pressed against him, Peter could feel every vertebrae in his spine against his chest.

"I did look!" Peter protested, even as Neal thrashed against him, trying to break free. "I looked every minute of every goddamn _day_, Neal, for _four_ months. But you were _gone_."

He could feel Neal's strength giving out as his thrashing grew weaker, and Neal's legs suddenly gave out. It wasn't surprising, considering he looked like he was about to fall down since Peter saw him in the doorway. He slowly eased them to the floor, still keeping Neal pinned against his chest as much as to keep him from running as much as he was trying to keep Neal from hurting himself further. He could feel blood starting to trickle from the open, ugly wound under the cuff.

"I _tried_ to find you, Neal. I swear to you, I tried everything." Peter pressed the side of his head against Neal's, even as wrenching sobs shook Neal's entire frame. "But this time, I had to wait for you to find _me_."

"You _left_ me…" Neal said, so softly Peter would've missed it if he hadn't had his head resting against his friend's. "_You left me_…"

And Peter felt his heart break.

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><p><em>Lost and insecure you found me, you found me<em>

_Lyin' on the floor_

_Surrounded, surrounded_

_Why'd you have to wait?_

_Where were you? Where were you?_

_Just a little late_

_You found me, you found me_

_The Fray – You Found Me_

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><p>So. What do you think? Good, bad, sequel (not that I have any ideas)...please leave a review. I like constructive criticism, or even just what you thought of the finale and what you think might happen in season 6. I know, I seem to have an issue writing Neal when he's in his right frame of mine, but I do so love things with broken wings...<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Okay, no lie, I was not planning on a second chapter. There MIGHT be a third, but I doubt it, unless someone can give me an idea. I don't know about anyone else, but I damn near screamed when the series finale came around and you think (SPOILER) Neal is dead. As soon as Peter pulled that wine bottle out, and it was the bottle from the first episode when Neal explains it was a message from Kate...I was yelling at the TV like a cheerleader at the Hail Mary touchdown.

My parents might think I'm crazy...oh well. You guys love me though, right? Show me with reviews!

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><p>He probably should've called a cab to take them back from the hospital, considering how distracted he was while driving. But Neal was hard enough to coerce back into the car, even drugged to the gills as he was. Public transit simply wasn't an option.<p>

Stopped at a red light, Peter could finally take a longer look at his partner. Neal was pressed against the passenger door, both hands tucked underneath his arms like he was hugging himself. Even in the dim light of the early evening, Neal looked awful. His stay in the hospital had done little to relieve his nightmare induced insomnia, and according to the attending physician, they often relied on sedation to get him to sleep at all. His cheeks were still hollowed, making him appear as a scarecrow, but at least his skin was no longer flushed with fever from infection.

The light turned green, and Peter slowly accelerated, trying not to jostle his passenger. It apparently wasn't fast enough for the car behind him, because they blared their horn as they sped around him.

Neal lurched awake, hand already going to the door handle. Good thing Peter already set the child locks on the door, or he would be in the road right now.

"Easy, Neal. Just typical New York traffic," Peter said lightly, keeping one eye on the road and the other on Neal as he blinked slowly. One heavily bandaged hand came up to rub at his eyes, and he seemed surprised at the dressing, squinting at the white gauze encasing from his palm to his elbow.

"Souvenir from the hospital. They had to do some pretty fancy footwork to save your hand, but they assured me you'd get full dexterity back once it healed, with the help of some therapy."

Neal wiggled his fingers, testing the diagnosis. They were slow, but at least they moved. The doctors had to slice all the way to his elbow to cut out the infection, but at least they managed to save the limb. When they'd first seen the terrible damage the cuff had done, they told Peter up front that the nerves and ligaments might not be salvageable, but they would do their best. Several skin grafts later, and Neal's hand looked more like he was recovering from a burn instead of sepsis and necrotizing fasciitis, skin healthy and pink instead of black and rotten.

Neal's meds were still in full effect, which meant he had the motor coordination of a drunken sailor, and his head lolled towards the window, clunking against the glass as he peered out at the New York City lights. "Home?" he slurred, after working his mouth for a minute, trying to get it to work.

"Well, my home. Fewer stairs. And El is working from home now, so she can make sure your bandages are changed and you take your meds." Peter glanced over at Neal, whose eyes slid shut again, but he wasn't asleep. Neal fought long and hard against the sedatives they gave him, refusing to sleep and unwilling to explain why.

In fact, Peter knew less now than when Neal first showed up on his doorstep. Neal refused to answer any questions about where he'd been for four months. He refused to answer almost any direct question, and until recently, barely spoke at all. The simple question of 'home' was a huge leap forward in progress. The FBI could find no trace of his movements on camera leading up to Neal showing up on his doorstep. Mozzie and his contacts weren't any more help – the criminal world was in the dark about where Neal had been.

Or they were more worried about the wrath of whoever was behind it than they were about the FBI, which was more than a little concerning. Peter preferred the idea that no one knew where Neal disappeared to, rather than someone knew, but was too afraid to say.

The front light was on, El waiting at the door when he pulled up in front of the house.

"How was the ride?" she asked, staying on the threshold while Peter helped Neal from the car. She shifted anxiously, her motherly instinct kicking in but unable to help. They realized early on that Neal was only tolerant of one person in close proximity. Any more than that, no matter how well he knew them, and he went into a blind panic, clawing and even biting to get away from them. Diana and Jones found that out the hard way.

When Peter had originally brought Neal to the emergency room, that night he returned, it had been utter chaos. As soon as a nurse approached them, Neal tried to wrench himself away from Peter, unmindful of how much pain he must have caused himself. He hadn't said anything, no begging or pleading as he pulled away, but it was clear he didn't want to stay. Neal had been strangely silent after his outburst at the house, and it was even more disturbing when he made no noise of protest.

The silence hadn't lasted long though – as soon as more nurses and doctors showed up, Neal went ballistic. He managed to break a male nurse's nose when they tried to get him on a gurney, kicking him in the face. A wildly swinging arm caught a doctor's eye when they tried to sedate him. Even after giving him a sedative so they could treat him, Neal didn't lose consciousness until the second dose.

Ever since, they had to keep him heavily sedated if there had to be more than one person present, and frequently called Peter or El into the hallway to discuss his treatments and prognosis instead of remaining in the room. Only one nurse at a time could check on him, change dressings, or bring him food. Even with the drugs they had him on, if Neal was awake while someone else was with him, his heart rate and blood pressure would spike alarmingly high until they left again.

Plain and simple: Neal couldn't be around people.

"About as well as can be expected," Peter said, carefully helping Neal stand on wobbly legs. The conman was a far cry from his usual elegance, swamped in Peter's old academy sweatshirt hoodie and loose pants, but at least he managed to stay upright without too much of Peter's help. "Slept most of the way here, but I think they're wearing off."

"Hi, Neal," El greeted warmly, smiling. "Your room is all made up for you if you just want to go straight upstairs. I do have some dinner if you want. I can bring it up to you, or you can sit downstairs, whichever you prefer."

She stepped back to give them space to enter, Peter trailing just behind Neal to make sure he didn't fall, or try to run.

Neal stopped just outside the threshold, arms hugged tightly around himself as he teetered briefly.

At first, Peter thought he was going to bolt, or worse, collapse where he stood, but Neal took a shuddering breath, as if steeling himself against some invisible force field, and took a step inside.

The reaction was almost instantaneous. Neal's hunched shoulders finally relaxed, slumping downwards as a breathed a sigh of relief. It looked like he was deflating.

El reached a tentative hand up to Neal's shoulder, but for once he didn't flinch away from her. "Welcome home, Neal," she said, and Peter could see her eyes getting watery.

"_Home_…" Neal repeated, and smiled briefly back at her. It wasn't remotely close to his normal 1000 watt smile, but it was more than Peter had seen in months. He didn't think he would ever see it again.

"Yeah, buddy. You're home."

Neal didn't last long at the table, but he at least managed to eat enough that they could give him the medication the doctor prescribed for the night. Besides the heavy duty sleep aides that they were continuously ratcheting up due to Neal's self-inflicted insomnia, they also had several strong antibiotics that needed to be taken with food.

While Peter did the dishes, El guided a drowsy Neal upstairs to his room, hovering closely with her hands almost touching his arm but not quite. His gait at a slight hitch in it from an old, and likely severe injury to it. Nothing was currently broken or torn, and the x-rays revealed no sign of fractures, but the surgeon suspected his entire hip might have been dislocated for a period. They were confident that the more Neal walked, the easier it would become and he'd be able to walk normally in no time.

"I know you've been having problems sleeping, but hopefully being out of the hospital will help," El said, peeling back the covers for Neal to sit on the mattress.

For the most part, Neal seemed to stay in a sort of dazed state, blinking owlishly as he obediently sat on the bed, but made no further movements. He had a thousand yard stare, vivid blue eyes staring absently at nothing, and gave no indication that he heard El say anything.

She sighed, before heading to the bathroom, returning with a glass of water and the required medicine.

Neal's eyes refocused, staring at the three white pills on her open palm.

"Okay, Neal, here you go. It's just to help you sleep," she said, holding out her hand.

Neal reared back and slammed into the headboard, slapping her hand away from him with a terrified yelp of protest, sending the pills flying across the floor. The shattering glass as well as the horrified "_No_!" from Neal had Peter dropping the dish he was putting away, running up the stairs two at a time.

He skidded to a stop in the doorway, frozen momentarily by the sight that greeted him. Neal was curled over on himself, pressed back against the headboard with his feet drawn up, his badly damaged hand tucked close to his chest while the other was out in front of him, not quite demanding and not quite pleading for El to stay away.

"Please, please, please, don't…" Neal repeated frantically, keeping his face turned away as if he expected a blow, his entire frame shaking violently.

"Hon?" Peter asked, and El shook her head. She was fine, but Neal clearly was not.

"I tried to give him his prescriptions, but…" El shook her head again. Obviously Neal was less than compliant with the doctor's orders.

"Neal?" Peter said gently, carefully easing himself into the room, hands up an palm out so that Neal could see he had nothing, that he wasn't there to hurt him.

"I don't want to sleep anymore," Neal said, voice pinched and desperate. "I'll be quiet. _I'll be quiet_. I won't go anywhere. You don't have to make me sleep."

"Neal, buddy, you've hardly slept at all," Peter protested, still calm and soothing. "You need to get some rest."

Neal barely repressed a sob, smothering it against the thick bandages of his hand. He shook his head. "I don't want to sleep. I _can't_ sleep."

Peter shot a confused glance at his wife, who shrugged helplessly. The hell…? "Neal, what do you mean?" When Neal shook his head again, refusing to speak, Peter pressed further. "Come on, Neal. You have to tell me why you don't want to sleep, or we're going to have to go back to the hospital." He wasn't even exaggerating – the doctor gave strict instructions that if Neal didn't sleep, if he refused his meds, then he would have to be brought back and most likely put in the psych ward until they figured out the cause. Insomnia could be fatal – people were not designed to go without sleeping for weeks, and it lead to delirium, hallucinations, and a myriad of other health problems.

"I can't wake up," Neal breathed, eyes bright with unshed tears. "I can never wake up. As soon as I try, they make me sleep again."

Peter tried to make sense of that statement, but El beat him to it.

"Neal…do you mean whoever had you, the people who kidnapped you…they kept you asleep the whole time?"

Neal shuddered at the question, but Peter could just make out the subtle nod of his head. "They tried other ways to make me stay put. One of them even managed to dislocate a hip and left me like that for days. But when pain didn't keep me caged, they put it in my food, in the water they let me have. When I figured stopped eating, they would just pin me down until I swallowed them."

Peter barely suppressed his own shudder. Four months of being in a drug induced slumber, in pain when you were awake. Long term usage of those kinds of drugs caused all sorts of problems, one of which was a tolerance, which explained why they could give him enough tranquilizers to down a horse and Neal would still be awake and fighting it. Another side effect was conscious sedation, which was something like a waking coma. Someone could be awake and unable to move, but perfectly aware of what is going on around them or what is being done to them.

"What if when I wake up, this is gone?" Neal whispered, and Peter could watch his entire face pale. He dropped his outstretched hand, using both to cover his mouth. Whether or not keep them from giving him his meds or from throwing up what little he'd eaten, Peter didn't know. Neal started rocking, burying his face in drawn up knees, horrible, wrenching sobs shaking his shoulders.

"It's not real. It's not real. It's not real…" he repeated. "None of it is real."

Peter threw caution to the wind, crossing the room in three short strides and sitting on the mattress in front of Neal, who only scrunched down further. "Neal, listen to me. Look at me, Neal," he ordered. When Neal refused to listen, Peter lifted his chin so the conman had no choice but to look him in the eye. Neal tried to twist away, but Peter kept his grip, gentle but insistent. "This is real, Neal. _All _of it is real. You're home, you're safe, you're here with us. Not there. Do you understand?"

Neal shook his head, unaccepting. "Not real."

Peter pulled Neal forwards in a paternal hug. "_Very_ real, Neal."

He could feel Neal's shoulders drop, deep shuddering breaths as he fought to control his breathing. The younger man's head was just to side of his own, and he could barely hear the next words.

"Promise?" he whispered.

"I _promise_," Peter whispered back.

And suddenly Neal's arms were around his neck, holding on like he was an anchor to reality and almost painfully tight and he could hear Neal whispering to himself.

"It's real…it's _real_…"

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><p>Once I was real<br>Once I was somebody's child  
>Once I could feel<br>Some feeling once in a while

Once I was here  
>Once I was somebody's friend<br>Once I appear  
>I will be real once again<p>

- Once, by Caleb Kane

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><p>Sooo...like it? Hate it? Want more? Less? Did it seem to flow? I really appreciate any comments on the actual style of writing just as much as the plot. Really, it helps me out a lot with future writings. Knowing whether or not people like a style of writing is really quite handy.<p>

Show some love! Read and review! I NEED LOVE!


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